The InBetween Ways
by Liquid Laughter
Summary: And she thinks that maybe she's crying for Ron, but she's also crying for herself and her world and all the lives so needlessly torn apart; for the way things were and will never be again and for the little boy that Harry used to be she misses him so desperately, because they used to be hers, him and Ron .


Disclaimer: Once upon a time, a little girl did not own Harry Potter or any of the lovely things associated with it. That little girl would be me.

* * *

_The In-Between Ways_

* * *

He's really gone.

It's been over a month, and he hasn't come back. She shouldn't hold it against him, because _she_ made the camp Unplottable, and therefore she'd known as soon as he'd left that he wouldn't be _able_ to return, even if he'd wanted to. That doesn't make his absence any easier to deal with, though. (Gods; she hadn't known it would hurt this much…how can it hurt this much?)

She and Harry dance around each other, sneaking glances when they think the other isn't looking, setting Silencing Charms when they curl up in their respective cots at night so that they can fool themselves into thinking their secrets are kept (because they both know they aren't fooling each other).

It's more than enough that she sees the way Harry's eyes become haunted when he glances at Ron's empty bunk and has to clear his throat with a slight, pained cough. He's got plenty to deal with as it is. He doesn't need to know that there are periods of the day when she can't really function because of her anger and resentment and _grief_, or that she's pitched several fits and intentionally broken every breakable thing in the tent, repairing everything hurriedly before he returns from gathering food or information or firewood, or that at night she lies on her cot and pulls the covers over her head and sobs until she can't breathe (_can't breathe, can't breathe_).

She can't burden him like that. Not now.

So instead she tries to keep her grief silent, and ignores the concerned glances he shoots at her and the soft, gentle voice he addresses her with that she's never heard him use before. She does a passable job of it, too. For a while, anyway.

* * *

She's trying to reorganize her handbag, because it's become such an absolute mess and she needs to be able to find any given thing at any given time (because trivial knowledge and a quick wit can't always save them). Harry's a few rooms over, consulting a map of the god-forsaken region they're in, planning their next move, when her hand brushes up against something knitted and worn and soft. She pulls it out and feels the slicing pain cut through her at the Weasley sweater that's maroon and stretched and distinctly Ron-scented (_because he always wore it, even though he hated maroon, and Harry was so proud of his and always beamed at Christmas (luminous, shining) and that first year when they were all together was absolute magic and their eyes were so bright and their futures so open and their smiles so unpracticed and they were perfect and where had they gone, her boys? When had they disappeared and why had they gone –_)

And the air becomes too thin and the room starts spinning and her chest is aching with repressed sobs and she can hear Harry moving around nearby, as though he's preparing to come and find her, so she slips away to the bathroom and quietly shuts the door and turns on the shower to cover her gasping cries. She slips out of her clothes and into the warm blast of water, and tries to close her eyes and force the memories from her head, tries to focus on something – anything – that's not twisted and broken and bittersweet. But it's so very difficult, because everything good and pure that she has is connected to them, and everything connected to them is painted with heartache and worry (_and the images come faster: their affectionate teasing of her books; the excitement in their faces as they consult the Map; the hugs she receives on the platform, always; their gleeful whoops as they fly around the pitch; their playful pouts as they beg for her help; the laughter in their eyes as they pull jokes and hang about and simply _are_ – _)

She falls to her knees in the tub – hands clutching arms, body folding in half – and crouches there, sobbing, as the enormity of what she's lost pours over her.

After she's cried herself out – she doesn't know how long it takes – she just sits there, feeling slightly numb (except for that always-there worry that catches like fire in the back of her throat).

She can tell when Harry enters the bathroom and climbs into the shower. He doesn't say anything; just kneels down beside her and wraps his arms around her, shielding her from the spray of water that has long-since turned frigid. She can feel the rough, damp, slide of his clothes against her icy skin, but she can't really bring herself to feel embarrassed for her nakedness, not even when he starts rubbing soothing circles into her arms and presses a chaste kiss to the crown of her bent head. She screws her eyes shut against the tears that are starting to crowd again in the corners of her eyes; presses her lips tight against the wail building in her throat; starts to shake with the weight of her lot as the walls of the tiny shower start to close in around her – (_gone, gone, gone; where had they gone?_)

He shifts suddenly, moving behind her, his legs sprawled on either side of her curled body. Even when he's sitting and she's kneeling, he's still so much taller than she is (when did he catch up with Ron?), and he uses the height to his advantage as he grabs her shampoo and starts massaging the soap into her scalp. (A tiny cry escapes her; she hugs herself tighter in response.) He washes her hair gently, with all the loving care of an adoring mother (gods, Harry, how did it happen – when did the roles switch?), and carefully tilts her head back to rinse the white suds out of the thick black tangle of her curls. He repeats the process with her conditioner (she tries harder to keep it in, but the sobs are leaking out now, the salty moisture on her cheeks mingling with the water that drips down from her damp hair), and when he's done, he wraps his arms around her stomach and pulls her back against him, resting his head against the curve of her spine. And he's holding her so close – his forearms barely brushing the underside of her breasts and his legs thrown out casually against the outside edge of hers and the wet of their hair mixing, his just a hint of a shade darker – that she can't tell where one leaves off and the next begins and whether or not they're not really one person, after all, because she can feel his heart beating inside her chest.

And she sobs harder than ever before as she feels his glasses press into her shoulder, her body aching with the weight of her tremors. And she thinks that maybe she's crying for Ron, but she's also crying for herself and her world and all the lives so needlessly torn apart; for the way things were and will never be again and for the little boy that Harry used to be (she misses him so desperately, because they used to be hers, him and Ron)…and beyond it all for the way they've all grown up, in the in-between moments when she wasn't paying attention.

Gone is the pale, skinny little boy that she befriended all those years ago, the one with inquisitive green eyes and an innocent sense of amazement about him. In his place is a man with battle wounds and a quick wand-hand, a fierce courage and a firm grasp of right and wrong; his innocence embittered by grief and his body turned sinewy and lean from necessity and constant running. The blunt, blue-eyed redhead that saved her from the troll – with freckles and sharp stratagems and countless precious dreams (_ages and ages and ages back_) – has been replaced by a hardened man with a fierce temper and an unyielding stubbornness and a subtle, understated kindness and compassion, in spite of the way so many of his dreams have gone sour, that never fails to leave her wide-eyed and slightly shocked and uncertain. (She just wants to go back: to keep them forever and ever and never let them go; to never have to lose them – _eleven and untainted always._)

When she's finally worn herself out with crying and just kneels there, limp, in Harry's arms, shivering under the icy blast of the water, he finally turns the shower off. He picks her up and carries her, dripping and wet, through the tent to the room they share to set her on her cot and leave, returning moments later with a towel and her bathrobe. He dries her off carefully, muttering soothing nonsense words to calm the hiccups that escape her, and wraps her softly in the warm terrycloth before swapping his soaked clothes for dry ones. When he's changed, he settles on the bed behind her and begins brushing through her hair, almost-humming under his breath (she listens quietly, because Harry rarely sings; only when he thinks that no one is around to hear him). Her hair is gently wrestled into a messy, lopsided plait (he grins widely at her, his smile sloppy with childish pride at that wretched braid, and her heart nearly bursts with nostalgia and longing). And then she's pressed back against the mattress and swaddled in blankets _to keep her from catching a chill_, and he lays down beside her and pulls the covers up over them and presses a kiss to her nose and tells her it's alright – _try to get some sleep_. (Oh, god; how is it possible for love to make your heart _ache_ so terribly much? And why-oh-why does it _hurt _so_ badly_?)

She feels the empty space on her other side – the one that's been always-occupied, until recently, for seven years (gods, Sirius, she understands) – and she wonders briefly if this is how Fred and George feel when the other isn't around. (Do they feel the panic, too? The _fearfearfear_, choking fear?) Harry rubs her back soothingly and shushes something indiscernible at her, and a few quiet tears leak out to brush discretely against the column of his neck before she gives up regretting and loses herself in wishing and heartbreak and the unending pang of change (did you know, Dumbledore? So much, so much…).

(_Littledarlingsmysweetangels_)

And gods; what she wouldn't give, to have been able to keep them close…


End file.
